


"i think your water's ready."

by novoaa1



Series: natasha tries not to do "feelings" (the operative word here being 'tries') [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: But we love her anyways, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kitchen Sex, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, POV Wanda Maximoff, Steve Rogers (mentioned) - Freeform, Wanda Maximoff Feels, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, and shes really confused, idk man, like badly, natasha romanoff sucks at feelings, she just wants her tea, wanda is a gay mess, will probably come back to edit later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 06:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18845815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Wanda's confused, because she kind-of-sort-of slept with Natasha but now she's not sure what to do?Natasha isn't good at talking about feelings.It devolves... but like, in a good way. Sort of.





	"i think your water's ready."

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm gonna plan on adding more to this series, cause I think their dynamic is awesome but it's also super complex so... idk. Let me know what you think!

Three days. 

 

That’s how long it’d been since her night with Natasha.

 

Three days since the woman had come to her injured and broken, let Wanda cleanse her wounds, and then, in a startling change of pace, had pinned the young witch down on her own bed, and proceeded to slowly but surely ravage her with an intensity unlike anything she’d ever known before. After that, she’d let Wanda stitch her up, and they’d dozed off side-by-side—until Wanda woke three hours later, and Natasha was gone.

 

Honestly, she’d have thought she’d merely dreamed it all up if there weren’t dried bloodstains on her white fluffy towel and the heady scent of _Natasha_ clinging to her sheets and a pleasant ache between her thighs that begged to differ.

 

She didn’t see Natasha again until the next day; the redhead was sparring gracefully with Clint in the gym, and as Wanda walked past she could’ve _sworn_ the older woman winked at her—though the sultry smirk on her face was more than enough to make Wanda stumble over her own feet, cheeks flushed while she ducked her head and speed-walked away as fast as she possibly could.

 

They’d done ‘family dinner’ that same night in the common area, so she’d seen Natasha then, too; the assassin had dressed herself in ridiculously short black pajama bottoms and a tight white tank top that showed _everything_ —Wanda was sure she almost fainted upon the realization that Natasha wasn’t wearing a bra, her brain turning promptly to mush every time her traitorous eyes darted down to see full round breasts topped with pert pebbled nipples straining _obscenely_ against the barely-there fabric beneath the delicate slope of Natasha’s collarbones; and somehow, it made it so much _worse_ that she’d seen firsthand just how devastatingly gorgeous the Black Widow was under that skimpy clothing. 

 

(Though, to be fair, she wasn’t the only one at a complete and utter loss for words that night—Steve, too, looked positively _scandalized_ , his blush reaching the tips of his ears every time Natasha so much as brushed past him in the kitchen.)

 

And still, Natasha just grinned and made clever quips and teased Steve relentlessly for his senior citizen status like nothing had changed, like she _hadn’t_ been in Wanda’s room on her knees pleasuring the young witch into oblivion just two nights earlier. 

 

Wanda had gone to bed that night supremely worked up and unbelievably frustrated, only managing to fall asleep when it was well after three in the morning, the faint lingering scent of Natasha lulling her steadily into unconsciousness. 

 

By the next day, Wanda had just about had enough—she was sleep-deprived, she missed Pietro like a burning ache deep beneath her chest that she feared might never go away, and she’d come down to the kitchen at a plain ungodly hour (5:49am—she just couldn’t sleep anymore without seeing her brother’s lifeless body amidst the desolate wreckage of Sokovia, the pain lancing sharply through her chest as if it were just yesterday she’d lost him) only to discover that she wasn’t the only one up at that hour: two paces into the kitchen (far too late to turn back unseen), she belatedly took notice of a scantily-dressed Natasha curled up delicately on the sleek granite countertop with a steaming mug of coffee at her side, uttering a soft, “Hey, Wanda” as her sharp green eyes followed Wanda’s tentative movements around the space.

 

Wanda mumbled a half-hearted greeting back, dutifully keeping her gaze on the floor (it being far too early to attempt eye contact without revealing _everything_ , especially when the person you’re trying to hide from is ex-KGB, ex-assassin, and current full-time badass Avenger), focusing instead on fixing herself a cup of tea and getting the _hell_ out in as little time as possible. 

 

She should’ve known Natasha would notice something was wrong—well, perhaps Wanda knew there was no fooling her; rather, she just thought the assassin wouldn’t bother to comment on it.

 

She was stupid to think such a thing.

 

A moment later, and “Everything okay?”—Natasha’s husky voice filters over to her, and God _dammit_ , she should have just stayed in bed, trauma-ridden nightmares of her fallen twin be damned.

 

“Fine,” she manages, her tone strangled as she carefully sets the kettle to medium heat on the stove, grateful for the distraction from having to turn and face Natasha head-on. “Just tired.”

 

Natasha just hums, and Wanda hates the tingle of electricity that shoots down her spine at the sound. “And why don’t I believe that?” 

 

_Shit_. 

 

Wanda bites her lip, reluctantly turning on her heel to face Natasha (there’s nothing to do but wait for her water to boil, anyhow)—the breathtaking woman is a good ten feet away tucked far back onto the opposite counter, but still, the proximity feels positively stifling.

 

“Just the normal stuff,” she chokes out, a wry grin curving at her lips despite herself, because she’s sure that she wouldn’t know ‘normal’ anymore if it hit her in the face, not since von Strucker took her and Pietro in as his own experimental test subjects for inhuman abilities—not since she felt the crimson-tinted energy sparking at her fingertips, not since she obtained far more power than she has any clue what to do with, much less how to manage without going insane.

 

“Normal’s kind of subjective, no?” asks Natasha then, and God, she hates how easily she can read Wanda’s thoughts—almost as if SHIELD's been mistaken this entire time, and she’s _not_ the one with neuro-electric interfacing and mental manipulation abilities (according to Agent Hill’s files on her, at least), but rather, it’s been Natasha this whole time.

 

Still, she cracks a smile as best as she can, her eyes darting up to meet Natasha’s probing gaze for a brief second before she’s quickly losing her nerve, shifting her focus instead to her bare feet and neatly black-painted nails, pale flesh tinged with pink a stark contrast to the polished browns of the hardwood flooring. “I suppose so.”

 

She doesn’t hear Natasha getting down from the counter and landing almost catlike in complete silence across from her, isn’t given a single warning as the redheaded assassin stalks closer and closer without a word, but she supposes that’s to be expected from sharing a space with the unequivocally capable Black Widow—either way, she nearly has a heart attack when Natasha’s voice suddenly comes from less than a foot away, gentle and low and _debilitating_ : “Talk to me?”

 

And _Christ_ , those words take Wanda right back to that night, to a gloriously naked Natasha draped elegantly on her floor in the low lighting of her bedroom, perfect alabaster skin beaded with glistening droplets of water, to the hungry press of soft full lips against Wanda’s, feeling the older woman’s moan reverberating through her skin and—

 

_Shit_ , she thinks, because Natasha is looking at her expectantly, obviously waiting for a response, and—

 

“We slept together,” Wanda feels the words tumbling from her lips in a rush, and she has the sudden urge to slap herself as her cheeks begin to burn, because _Shit_. (She doesn’t dare look up to see Natasha’s reaction.) “I mean, sort of—Not that I—Well, I just—I mean, you really don’t—I shouldn’t—"

 

“We did,” Natasha says simply, and, Oh. 

 

_Oh_. 

 

Her flush deepens. “I just—I—I guess I-I’m confused.” 

 

Natasha steps closer, close enough that Wanda can _feel_ the woman’s warm breath across her lips, green eyes sparkling with something almost _predatory_ , and Oh _God_. “Confused about what, little witch?” she breathes, and Wanda’s sure her brain short circuits. 

 

“I—I-I—I mean, I—"

 

“I enjoyed it _very_ much,” Natasha practically purrs against Wanda’s lips. “Did you?”

 

_Holy shit_.

 

“I—Yes!” Wanda squeaks, her flush deepening even as Natasha chuckles in response. “I—Yes, of _course_ I did, I—"

 

And suddenly Natasha’s lunging forward to press her lips against Wanda’s, the brunette’s words promptly dying in her throat as she surrenders immediately to the intoxicating kiss, barely registering as an involuntary moan escapes her because _Holy shit, it’s happening again_.

 

Her burning anger directed towards Natasha from earlier, the crippling ache in her chest where Pietro dwelt, the exhaustion pulling at the edges of her vision—all of it is gone, fading blissfully into the background as Natasha’s tongue traces the seam of her lips and moments later she’s granting her entrance before she can think and another moan escapes her, one that Natasha swallows eagerly in her mouth, lips insistent and almost _bruising_ against Wanda’s in the best possible way; God, it’s utterly indescribable, too much and not enough all at once—Wanda’s never been one for taking risks or flying and she doesn’t think she ever will be, but _Fuck_ if she doesn’t feel as if she’s doing exactly that right now, and _Fuck_ if it isn’t the best goddamned thing she’s felt in her short time on Earth. 

 

Then Natasha’s hands are deliberately tracing the waistline of her tiny silken shorts, and she’s holding onto Natasha’s strong frame for dear life with trembling hands, begging for her to keep going, to touch her, to do _anything_ to quell the aching desire building steadily between her thighs, because she thinks she might implode if she doesn’t. 

 

Luckily, Natasha takes the hint—Wanda barely has time to _breathe_ before deft fingers are working their way under the waistband of her panties, dragging slow teasing digits through embarrassingly slick wet heat as Wanda lets out a soft broken moan, feeling her heated flush spreading uncontrollably down across her breastbone. Regardless, Natasha doesn’t give her a moment's rest—working her up fast and hard, lewd wet noises filling Wanda’s ears as she’s pressed suffocatingly against the countertop, the granite digging almost painfully into her lower back but God she doesn’t care she doesn’t _care_ , not when Natasha’s somehow expertly circling her swollen clit and teasing at her entrance at the same goddamned time, and it’s almost shameful how quick this is going to be but she’s past caring, past thinking, because a second later there’s two fingers dexterously sliding into her wet heat and the stretch is absolutely _delicious_ in that bordering-on-painful kind of way that’s overtly saturated with unmistakable pleasure and Natasha’s skillful fingers are working her clit _just so_ and she can’t hold it back she can’t she _can’t_ —she’s thrown headfirst into her climax and she’s sure she’s going to black out, sure this is the end, her body shuddering violently against Natasha even as the woman whispers affectionate reassurances into her neck that she can barely hear, because Natasha’s fingers are still working her so _well_ , so methodically she fears she might burst, the tidal waves of pleasure never-ending and she thinks she’s drowning but God, she wouldn’t mind if it felt like this. 

 

It takes minutes for her to come down (or possibly longer), the black spots slowly receding from her vision as she trembles against Natasha, who has since extracted her hand and is instead holding up the majority of Wanda’s weight with strong arms and soothing comforts, and _Fuck_ if Wanda isn’t still just as confused (if not more so now) than she was before, but there’s a pleasant ache settling between her thighs even though she _knows_ without a doubt her panties are ruined, and Natasha’s solid and warm around her and it’s hard to care right now about being angry or feeling lost or not knowing what the hell they’re even _doing_ because—

 

She flinches with what little energy she has left in Natasha’s arms at the screeching sound of the kettle behind her, everything crashing back to her as reality hits and she can barely register Natasha chuckling in the background and—Oh my God. 

 

Oh my _God_. 

 

She just—They just—

 

“I think your water’s ready,” Natasha says lowly, a thoroughly incapacitating smirk on her regal features as she reaches behind Wanda to turn the stove from medium heat to low. 

 

Then she’s peeling herself away with an absolutely _sinful_ wink that makes Wanda’s knees go weak (like they weren’t rendered unstable enough to begin with), snatching her coffee mug off the opposite counter with nimble hands and—Oh, God, she’s bringing her right hand up to pouting kiss-swollen lips, the first two fingers glistening with Wanda’s arousal, and sucking them sensually into her mouth, a muffled moan escaping her as Wanda watches, absolutely entranced. 

 

“That was fun,” she finally husks after a long moment, when she’s finally extracted both fingers from her lips—and with another goddamned wink, she’s strutting off out the kitchen and down the hallway, presumably up to her quarters like absolutely nothing of even mild importance had just occurred. 

 

The kettle’s still whining in that irritating high-pitched tone as Wanda stands frozen against the counter, eyes wide, lips tingling, a pleasurable soreness settled in her lower belly and— _Fuck_. 

 

_What the hell just happened?_

**Author's Note:**

> As always, would love feedback:) (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


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